Art on the Streets

Graffiti, street art, buskers, and street fashion all live in the same place: the bits of a city that are technically “in between.” Footpaths, alleyways, underpasses, train platforms, markets. The places you cut through on your way somewhere else. Together, they turn concrete into colour, noise and personality. To some people they are a sign of chaos. To others they are proof that a city is alive.

Modern graffiti grew alongside hip hop culture in the 1970s and 80s, when young writers began “tagging” their names on New York subway cars and walls. A tag was quick and simple, just a stylised signature that said “I was here.” Crews formed, styles evolved, and letters stretched into wild shapes with arrows, outlines and 3D shadows. Trains and walls became moving sketchbooks for people who had little money but endless imagination. As spray-paint skills developed, some artists moved from small tags to large, complex “pieces” that could take hours to complete. These murals added characters, backgrounds and colour schemes that demanded serious planning and technique. What started as an underground act of rebellion slowly became a recognised visual language.

Street art overlaps with graffiti but is usually less about a name and more about an image or idea. Instead of letter-based signatures, street artists use stencils, paste-ups, stickers, characters or full-building murals. They often make work that is easier for the general public to read: a child with a balloon, a flock of birds, a political slogan, a surreal creature. Where graffiti culture values repetition and letter style, street art leans into concept and accessibility. It can be playful, poetic, angry or unsettling, but it usually wants passersby to stop and think, not just decode a writer’s alias.

You cannot really talk about street art without mentioning Banksy. Officially anonymous for decades, Banksy built a global reputation with stencilled works that appear overnight on city walls. His pieces are simple at first glance but loaded with political and social commentary. A girl reaching for a heart-shaped balloon. A protester throwing a bouquet instead of a rock. Police in riot gear holding smiley-face signs. These images are instantly readable, which is why they travel so far online and in the news. Banksy also exposes the contradictions around graffiti and value. Councils have painted over his work as “vandalism,” while collectors and auction houses have sold walls he painted for large sums. One of his most famous stunts saw a framed artwork shred itself moments after being sold at auction. It was a reminder that street art was born for the street, not just for climate-controlled rooms and private collections. Despite the mystery around his identity, Banksy helped push street art from the edges of cities into mainstream conversation. He proved that something sprayed quietly on a wall can spark global discussion about war, capitalism, policing and freedom.

While graffiti and street art cover walls, street performers cover soundscapes. Buskers with guitars on corners, breakdancers on cardboard, jugglers at traffic lights, classical violinists in echoing tunnels. They turn sidewalks into stages. Street performance is often the purest form of “pay what you feel.” There is no ticket, no seating plan, no dress code. You might pause for one song or stay for an entire set. A crowd forms and dissolves in real time. For many performers this is more than a hobby. It is a training ground, a way to test material, build confidence, pay rent, or reach people who might never step into a theatre or nightclub.

Just like graffiti writers, street performers deal with tight rules around where they can and cannot exist. Some cities require busking licences or limit amplification. Others actively encourage it, recognising that live performance makes public spaces feel safer and more welcoming. Either way, the message is similar: we are here, we are talented, and we do not always need a traditional stage to prove it.

If the walls are painted and the air is full of music, then street fashion is the moving gallery that walks through it all. Oversized band tees, patched denim, thrifted jackets, statement sneakers, DIY patches, glitter, eyeliner, vintage finds. Street style is where subcultures become visible. In every city, there are unofficial catwalks: train stations before a concert, shopping strips on Saturday afternoons, skate parks, night markets. People watch each other, take ideas, remix aesthetics. One person’s handmade jacket or customised boots can spark a whole micro-trend in a neighbourhood or an online scene.

Street fashion and graffiti share a lot. Both are about making a mark in public with limited resources. Both are rooted in youth culture, music, and local identity. Both say, “I am not just passing through this place, I belong here.” Whether it is a painted wall or a carefully layered outfit, the body and the backdrop become part of the same story.

At the heart of all these forms of street culture is the same question: who gets to decide what a city looks and sounds like? Advertising covers buses and billboards. Developers rebrand neighbourhoods. Fast-fashion chains sell a version of “street style” back to people who created it. In response, graffiti, street art, buskers and fashion kids all claim a slice of that shared space for themselves. This is why the debate is so heated. Councils see tags and unlicensed buskers as problems to “clean up.” Residents argue over whether a colourful mural or a loud performer makes an area feel vibrant or “unsafe.” Meanwhile, many of the people painting, playing and dressing up are using those tools to talk about things like racism, poverty, climate, identity, boredom and hope. Artists like Banksy sit right in the middle of this tension. Their work is technically illegal when it appears, yet the moment someone decides it has financial value, it is fenced off, protected and insured.

Over the last couple of decades, cities have started to realise that the art and performance they were chasing away are also things that tourists and locals actively seek out. Entire laneways have been rebranded as “street art districts.” Festivals invite muralists, DJ crews and dancers to collaborate. Markets are curated around buskers and fashion stalls. Businesses commission murals and welcome buskers to play outside their doors. Lots of good comes from this. Artists and performers can finally be paid properly, gain visibility and work legally. Young people can access workshops and mentored projects. Communities get to see their stories reflected on walls, in songs, and in the clothes their neighbours wear. But there is a shadow side too. As soon as something becomes a “selling point,” it can be polished until the edges are gone. The same style that got someone fined on Tuesday might be sold as “edgy urban chic” on Friday.

Graffiti, street art, street performance and street fashion are messy, loud and sometimes uncomfortable. They do not always fit neatly into council plans or brand guidelines. That is exactly why they are important. They remind us that cities are not only shaped by people with advertising budgets and planning permissions. They are also shaped by kids with marker pens, dancers with portable speakers, buskers with a beat-up guitar, and someone in a thrifted outfit who turned the footpath into a runway. You can choose to see a tagged wall, a busker on the corner or a group of teens in bold outfits as visual noise. Or you can read them as lines in a much bigger story that your city is constantly writing about itself, in spray paint, in chords, in patches and pins.